Arrivederci, Chrome
by ch1ps0h0y
Summary: Death comes when one least expects it.


**Title**: Arrivederci, Chrome

_**A/N**: I apologise to those who are waiting for updates to 'Dear 69-sama'. My only excuse is that exams have meant I haven't been able to focus on writing anything. Well, except this, but this was written in one go one night, thanks to an event on Formspring. Please feel free to brick me if you so wish._

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It is a small ceremony, nothing extravagant - few attendees, all black, no white, the sleek ebony coffin borne on the shoulders of blank-faced, broad-shouldered men in crisp suits. And faces, turned to watch the coffin's progress, all wear grief as bleak as the shade of their clothing.

It is a small gathering, outside in the sheeting rain. Despite the temporary artificial shelter above, mud coagulates about the feet of the congregation and a shallow pool accumulates in the waiting grave. No-one speaks as the men lay the coffin gently upon a low altar with nary a grunt from the effort. With silence completely unexpected for men of their size, they disappear into the downpour.

The presiding priest's prayer is swallowed by the flood that relentlessly falls from the heavens. They cannot hear, yet the assorted men and few women stand with their heads bowed solemnly. One man near the head of the coffin, towering above the rest despite his bowed head, has his eyes cast demurely down towards the black box at his feet. His unusually-styled and coloured hair is not commonplace but that is not what causes the priest's eyes to flick repeatedly towards him during the recital.

The murmured words cease; the priest crosses himself then clasps the Bible to his chest and steps back, allowing the strong-armed men to return and slowly lower the coffin into the ground before taking up their shovels to fill in the grave.

The tears begin as the first spadeful of mud hits the lacquered wood. Glancing around, the priest sees two girls clutching each other and sobbing into one another's shoulders. The brown-haired boy next to them pats the one of the girls' backs awkwardly, as if unsure whether he should also join them in their open display of sorrow. Most of the party consists of young males, all of whose expressions reflect either shock or disbelief. It is almost odd, the priest thinks, that mostly young men would attend the funeral of a young girl...

And then there is that man - that tall, dark blue-haired man with a solemn gaze that had never left the coffin throughout the entire service. But now, with the formality of ceremony broken, it seems the man senses the attention and turns. Too late the priest is to avoid the penetrating stare of the unholy combination of crimson and deep cerulean that locks with his own of dull brown. Those eyes hold him for but a moment before they return to their vigil, yet the priest feels as if they had caught him for much longer and he surreptitiously crosses himself with a trembling hand.

A raw howl of despair startles the company - a boy with wild, blonde hair tamed only by a set of hair clips turns his face up and wails to the weeping sky, not unlike the baying of a wolf, and it sends shivers down the priest's spine. The wolf boy's bespectacled companion tries and fails to quieten the howling.

The grave is filled; the rain has slowed to a drizzle. The mourners begin to depart in twos or threes, talking quietly amongst themselves. Recollections of the deceased, fond memories, shared moments. The priest remains until the final spadeful had been patted down on the saturated earth before he begins to make his way back to the chapel, intending to pray for the girl as is his custom. Only the tall man remains before the grave, as silent as ever.

Or perhaps not. Another man appears soundlessly beside the taller one, similarly dressed in black - another mourner? - but he spares only a second to look over the fresh grave.

"It is done. She is dead. You cannot bring her back so stop dwelling on it." The newcomer's irritable, curt syllables immediately bring the taller man out of his reverie.

"I know," he replies. He draws out a flower - a single azalea - from somewhere amongst the folds of his coat, holding it gently between thumb and forefinger as he inspects it: it seems to have suffered no damage despite where it had been secreted. Overwhelmingly bright pink petals do little to dispel the gloom and heavy atmosphere wrought by the sombre ceremony. The tall man lays it atop the shallow mound, a faint smile on his lips, before taking one final look at the headstone's inscription.

The other manages to wait one whole minute before impatience gets the better of him. The newcomer takes hold of the taller man's wrist and tugs him away from the grave, scowling. The taller man chuckles a little but allows himself to be pulled along, finally turning away from the past to face the present, and whatever the future may bring.

.*.

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_**A/N**: Azaleas are representative of "love, romance, first love, fragile passion, temperance"__. I thought this was very much a reflection of Chrome, and Mukuro, knowing her, would likely have thought similarly when choosing a flower. Whether he feels the same way...well...that's up to the reader's interpretation._


End file.
